Abandonment
by Crimson Dracul
Summary: In an attempt to keep her sanity Abigail has kept a journal during the witch hunts. Now, Abigail has begun her journey to Boston, leaving behind the quarrels and madness in Salem. Though the trip to Boston is a simple affair, life in one of the busiest settlements in the thirteen colonies is nothing like Abigail imagined. Rated M for adult situations in later chapters.
1. September 2nd, 1692

**Salem, September 2nd 1692**

I hate him! But I also love the man. No, no I must teach myself to hate the man that turns his back from me! In the commotion about the town I have spent so much time weaving the most Intricate of tales and screamed my throat hoarse with the accusations of witch and now it appears to be all in vain. No harm has been brought upon thyself, for the webs of my own deceit and cunning have shielded me from that fall, but webs that others have spun made of truth and honesty have come undone. John Proctor why must you be one of those fools!

With my power over the court, that craven Elizabeth Proctor has been sentenced to hang at the gallows for her crimes against The Lord. Though John's own stubbornness and attempts to make amends with this woman's trust has lead him to frighten the poor and foolish girl Mary Warren. Though I pleaded and confessed my good intentions to John to free him of the chains that bind him to Elizabeth he chooses to go against me and accuse all of us of fraud. I trusted him, I was only doing what was best for the love we share but now he has trampled on it and sent it along with his body and soul to the gallows.

On the morrow I shall visit him in after my preparations have been completed. There is no place that is welcome to me in Salem as long as the power hungry and foolish people of the town continue to be apart or this world. If it is possible to show John the right path that leads to a future together I will attempt to forgive his disloyal behaviour to our love and allow him to join me in my journey, but if that man chooses to suffer at the hands of the court, I shall despise him forever! Leaving him as a bitter and heavy memory along with the godforsaken town of Salem.


	2. September 4th, 1692

Trade Ship en route to Boston, September 4th 1692

All that surrounds my sight at this current moment is the waves of the Atlantic, it has taken some time though to be able to stare out across the ship since I have been struck with violent waves of seasickness. The fare on this ship was less than originally thought and shall arrive in Boston within the next few days. Documentation of my journey so far will have to wait I feel that the distance between Salem and myself is not great enough to write of my departing.

Trade ship en route to Boston, September 5th 1692

Seas sickness still taken its toll on me. I have recovered over several symptoms but the dizziness and fatigue still has a grasp me. But I wonder is it really the sea that is tormenting my health or is it the gut feeling of knowing my love John Proctor's demise will happen shortly? No matter we are nearing arrival, meaning that ghastly seas sickness will be out of my system.

Boston, September 6th 1692

It is early morning now I am writing from a small inn, it is nothing like in Salem, if you find the right people a small offering of coin can make the most righteous of people quiet. Then again Salem is quiet and full of "righteous" people who pay homage to the God of money in return for the rights to continue playing pretend with The Lord in Heaven. The trade ship arrived just before the sun rose I had paid my fare beforehand so leaving was no hassle, a sailor was even kind enough to carry my small amount of baggage off the ship for me. I thanked the man but the lewd look he gave me spoke no kindness so quickly exited the ship, as I strolled down the docks the same lewd stares met my gaze from many sailors I even swear upon The Lord a woman of about thirty had the same expression! Not far from the docks down a few small, secluded streets there is an inn made of wood and a thatch roof that was fortunately open and by the sounds emitted from the window left ajar, had not closed after most good folk are asleep.

This is where I am now writing, on the floor above the wretched noise of drunkards and laughter. If uncle was hear I do not know if he would join in or shout at them for bringing blasphemy into the world, Abigail why must you compare everything to Salem! The innkeeper was the only being remotely sober when I entered the main hall and greeted me with some dignity and refinement, I asked for a room for one guest and directions to the nearest baker. The lodgings unlike the ship was expensive as he claimed it was the only room vacant meaning the price was raised front he usual six pence to eight pence. With hesitation I handed over the coin and offered another two pence to keep my privacy and disclosure of my stay, the mans eyes shone with greed and happiness as he wholeheartedly accepted. The fool was so open with his emotions, it lacked any wit when bargaining, but nonetheless it is to my benefit.

The lodgings are rather quant but has the necessity I was looking for, a bed. My dizziness has travelled off the ship and joined me on land but I mustn't let it get the better of me. The innkeeper handed men the key to the room and warned me to lock whenever I exit... or enter, it makes me wonder what kind of place I have come to.

Before I tire of writing and go in search of supplies I must record for my memory and a grim reminder what I have left behind. The night before my departure I set my plans into motion, I had a sack prepared with clothing, another smaller one with food, a long thick cloak to keep me warm on my journey and a small coin purse.

The sack containing clothing had my softest cotton nightgown suitable for summer and winter, a bonnet pure as white, a pair of simple leather shoes as a spare, a white woollen shawl, a pair of stockings and two dresses; one cotton and a faint blue and the other a gift from uncle Parris from Barbados made of fine cotton and a beautiful lilac. Among this bag was also my journal, several items of trade value from Barbados such as small jewels and shells, a crucifix necklace, a set of keys and... A token left behind from the savages who entered my home many years ago. The food sack was only basic as Uncle and Betty would have noticed their absence so I stuck to staples of bread, apples and dried meats- oh and of course water in a small skin.

The last task of getting money was not easy and had to be done last in preparation. I had sewn a bag made of a worn grey cloth almost identical to the purse that keeps my uncles secret coin stash, a few hours after midnight I began my task. The purse is hidden under a heavy chest in a broken floorboard so it required great care and patience to move the large, wooden obstruction that blocked my key to escape. My entry into the room couldn't have been more subtle but my execution wasn't the best course of action, while moving the chest uncle didn't stir once and the floorboard lacked all creaks as I moved it from it's position.

As the false purse was in place and the chest heaved into its original stance I crept out of the master suite only to walk into Betty! By the streams of tears on her face I knew immediately that something has broken the minuscule bravery that Betty possesses meaning she would awake uncle or Tituba to try and comfort her from whatever upset the damn girl. Before she could stutter out a cry of attention I quickly cover her mouth with my hand until all her whimpers turned to silence, then playing the part of comforting niece led away from where my uncle lay sleeping. Once I deemed us distant enough from the master suite in a quick movement knocked Betty unconscious with the heavy coin purse. I made sure she did not reach the floor and hit it like a fallen tree, making all my work for nothing and laid her on the floor close to the fireplace and without a moment to lose I swiftly and silently gathered my sack of clothes and food and made for the door into the pitch black night...

As I looked into the dark, solemn night my vision was minimised by the lack of the moon relying now on stars to lead me down the winding paths. The way to the courts holding cell. The room was not guarded at this time but the keys were in my possession as Mr. Parris leaves them in the most obvious of places when returning from the court they were not difficult to come by. Through the crack of the door I whispered in a voice that mimicked the sound of a siren as I called to my lover. He did not answer but the sound of chains made his presence known. I did not hesitate to open the door and moved to his side with the speed of a hound greeting its master, though John did not show me any loving and welcome words from my visit. But I did not let this discourage me, I told John of my plan to sail to Boston and my forgiveness for his behaviour court, as I spoke this I used language that would comfort a crying child who has lost its way in hope of curing my John John Proctor's stubbornness. But despite all my pleading, begging and threats nothing could change the mind of John... So in return for his lack of emotion and will to live I turned from him and cursed his foolishness and love I harboured for him! I shall never see him again. For I am now in Boston... And I fear that he is now among the hellfire with other unfortunate adulterers and witches who were to weak to repent!

This past is now nothing but a mere memory, it will follow me relentlessly throughout this world and the next but I must remember it shall never harm me. I mustn't fear the dead, only the living.


	3. September 6th, 1692

Boston, September 6th 1692 - evening

It is extremely dark outside now so I assume it is close to midnight, I am writing by the light from the small fireplace, the room has no proper lighting not even a candle so I must rely on the warmth and light provided from the small dying fire. I sorely misjudged this accommodation when I arrived as it is no where near worth the price the disgusting pig of an innkeeper charged. The room lacks any extra blankets and no heating besides the fire and not even a pillow, this has forced me to fold my best dress into something that somewhat resembles a pillow. The window has no shutters so the sounds from the docks are always audible but the occasional curses and cargo being shipped and transported in no way compares to the crass noises of the inn itself. The profanities and threats of the drunkards, swaying of the sickly, cursing sailors and cackling whores seem to be singing into my ear through the cracks in the floorboards in an attempt to keep me from ever being able to slumber peacefully!

After resting my adjusting sea legs I ventured out onto the streets of Boston in search of a baker. I ate all my rations of food that I prepared on the last night of my travels and by this point my stomach growled like a starving hound whose master had abandoned it, food became my only priority. Before leaving I dressed in a proper manner for the cold autumn weather, my pale pink dress made of cotton, stockings, white woollen shawl, white bonnet, leather shoes and my thick cloak draped over my shoulders.

When I exited the inn the streets had become very crowded! In just a few moments I had easily seen the most number of people than I had seen with my own eyes in my entire lifetime! Not only people but carriages, carts, hounds, horses, donkeys, houses, stores and to my dismay, rats. The amount of waste on the street had grown with the people and life around it I spent most of my time watching the paths for the disgusting rubbish that has accumulated with the business of the stores and workers and animals on the streets. Wondering around the streets lead to no signs of a baker so I was forced to ask directions. I hesitated on several occasions and watched my targets keep strolling down the street, which when I look back at it is not very characteristic of me I have never been timid even when I was a child. Eventually I encountered a man whom I assumed was a blacksmith or labourer of some sort as he was covered in dirt and soot, no matter he appeared rather friendly in comparison to the workers at the dockyards and he recently seemed as if he came to the city recently, his voice carried the weight of a strong British accent. He kindly gave me directions to a nearby bakery which was not only close by but cheap, I thanked the man and continued on my way.

The streets smelled of flour as I neared my destination and the amount of people on the streets increased. I entered the bakery and was in awe of the size of the store! The crowd was bustling in a surprisingly organised fashion with people quickly entering, paying and exiting the building and going on their way. It didn't take long for myself to get caught in this crowd and completing my task, though I wish I stayed longer as the smell from the bakery was a welcome to me with my current appetite. The loaves of bread were fairly priced and came in small proportions and the tasted of low quality flour, but filled my hunger nonetheless and appeared to contain no sawdust as some bakers add to their goods. As I headed back I unfortunately lost my way and walked a street to far the the east mistaking it for the street where the inn resided.

The street got quieter but I couldn't help but notice all the people wore similar clothes, Each one wore clothes that were plain and smelt foul as they exited a building nearby which also omitted that odour, many of the men exiting also carried boxes in and out in a rush. One of these foul people walked straight in my way and I was knocked to the ground by the force from the crate, thank goodness the street was only a dirt path otherwise the fall may have caused an injury. As I went to stand I noticed I had been covered in slime and scales and several foul fish! The worker then went as far to cursed at me for my stupidity and accused me of attempting to sabotage his work! The nerve of this man was no match for my temper as I met his claims by retorting, "I was merely passing through this street on way home and your lack of care while completing your job has caused me to lose my dignity and possibly lose your job by failing a simple task as you have spilt the contents of your crate all over me sir!" The man seemed shocked by my answer but soon his face morphed to a cocky expression and replied "Only a fool would stroll down a street filled with workers carrying crates and be as stupid as to accuse the owner of the largest fishmongers in Boston of failing at a "simple task" of transporting fish from his own workhouse."

I was no position to be defensive at this point and apologised, but unfortunately this was not good enough for this fishmonger who demanded I repay him for his 'lost goods'. He introduced himself properly as Mr. Johnston and threatened to charge me with theft unless I worked the damages off in his workhouse. As there were no witnesses to prove my innocence the police would surely take Mr. Johnston's side, as of tomorrow I will be working at that damned fishmongers until the debt is payed.

I must arrive at sunrise so I must rest as much as humanly possible in these few hours. I have now one clean dress, the other is now defiled with no chance of it being washed in the near future and it is soaked in fish guts which for all I know carries disease. I shall speak to the innkeeper about the possibly of attaining a wash bucket. In my earlier ramblings I forgot to mention the fact that I also lost my bread as it was crushed among the waste of the streets leaving me once again hungry, meaning more spending of my already dwindling coin.


	4. September 7th, 1692

Boston, September 7th 1692 - evening

Though I wish to write more my mental and physical state of exhaustion will not allow my hands to write as I usually would.

My knees and legs ache as if I have been praying while kneeling on a church floor made of the hardest stone from the moment of the rising of the sun to the time it has set in the west. The smell that lingered the previous day does not compare to the state of my clothing today as the scent has since then tripled in strength. Forever cemented the smell of the deep seas and entrails into the finest pieces of thread in my dress, then going as far as etching the stench into my skin. My hands are numb from the labours of the day and have cuts from their newly acquainted task of cutting with knives bigger than any common cooking knife in the repetitive and precise motion that is required to cut a fish head clean from the body.

The Particular state of my hands is the major cause of my lack of will to write in detail of my first experience, which is the first of many days that are to be spent at the fishmonger's workhouse. I may have to rewrite this entry due to the ghastly quality of my calligraphy that is a mockery of my level education. I have been squandering time nick picking, back to the experiences of the fishmongers.

Rising before the sun, I made my way out of the inn and onto the now quiet streets. Though the sun was still far from rising the docks in the distance emitted sounds of commotion as the day had already begun for the seafarers and sailors. I did not bother with further observing their work and searched for the street that smells of rotting entrails, where I was to be put to work for the clumsy obnoxious Mr. Johnston... It may be best to keep my more aggressive and opinionated thoughts to myself for now. Though it may have been accidental encounter with the workhouse yesterday finding the street this morning was no trouble.

Upon arrival the workhouse was already occupied by several workers that appeared to running their tasks in a repetitive and efficient manner. At first I feared that I had somehow arrived late and would be punished, but thankfully these thoughts were put to ease shortly as I was greeted by my new employer, who spoke of no complainants of my arrival time or about my presence. The other day I neglected to record Mr. Johnston's appearance, though I believe his appearance has since then changed slightly.

Mr. Johnston is neither short nor particularly tall. Though dressed in long pants and a thick brown overcoat, He appears to have gained strength in his upper body and arms through years of labouring as a worker or perhaps a farmer, giving him a slight muscular appearance that is still visible with layers of heavy clothing. His skin bares an almost tan complexion which leads me to further suspect that he has spent many years previously working under the sunlight, not in a workhouse. His face has no features that catch the eye upon meeting him making him easy to mistake as a plain, at further inspection he has a light stubble from assumed regular shaving, his nose is rather large and his face appears more sharp than round or plump. To compliment his slight tan his hair and eyes are an identical shade of dark brown, making his eyes cold and creating a dirty appearance in his wavy hair.

After casual greeting in a tone that seemed to be forced, Mr. Johnston went on to offer a tour of the workhouse and to lead me to my work station where my training shall commence immediately after he is done with explaining the requirements that it will be placed under as a part of my personal debt to him for the commotion caused the other day. I was in no position to question the reason of my employment being treated like a criminal sentence put in place by Mr. Johnston and agreed to join him as he began to stroll towards the next room, though I had not past the threshold into the next room I could already sense the bustling of the workers and the rising stench.

My calligraphy's quality is deteriorating at an increasing pace, I cannot continue writing. I shall rest my aching body and persist with my writing in the later hours of the night.


	5. September 8th, 1692

**_Continued_**

September 8th, before dawn

Not long after I put down my journal last night, sleep overcame me and so I begin to write this continuation early before my day truly begins.

As I walked through the threshold I was admittedly surprised by the number of workers milling around this room which could not have been larger than the inns kitchen that is my current residence. To add to the occupied space in the room there were two rows of tables, assembled of several dinging tables that spanned the length of a small boat and each one was surrounded by women who appeared to be bordering their elderly years. The windows were almost out of sight as they sat close to the ceiling and would be unrecognisable if it weren't for the morning sun creating a harsh golden glow to shine that gave some comfort to rather dirty, gloomy walls. The main source of light supplied to the area was in the form of the open doorway near an alley which was beginning to grow from a golden colour to a brighter tone. And of course, as one would expect of this establishment fish contained what little space was left surrounding the walls and occupied the tables.

Mr. Johnston told me that this room was the sorting room where the fish that had been gutted and prepared for sale were placed into crates for shipment or to be delivered to his store in a nearby street. He went on to explain that this room was one of two areas where his workers carried out their daily tasks as he ignored the my absent, staring gaze as I observed the women as they continued their work in a repetitive manner that suggested their work has never confounded them nor faced them with any task that was out of the ordinary.

My attention was drawn back to him as he began walking across the room to another door, I followed with a pace similar to his own. He continued to speak of fish and other matters that I honestly could not care about even if I am to be one of his workers. After all from what I had gathered at a first glance this job did not require wit nor knowledge other than how to place a fish in wooden boxes or crates.

But soon my attention was soon drawn to the stench that increased as we continued to walk. "This is where you will be stationed for the time being," I had chosen just at that moment to come back to reality to hear Mr. Johnston, though this time I could barely focus on anything but the familiar stench that covered all my clothing and now came seeping through all the space in the room. The room contained a similar setup to the previous one but escalated in stench, women and fish debris surrounding majority of the room, decorating the tables in a faded shade of red and defiling the dirt floor with smashed, discarded guts.

I wanted to believe that he was talking to some other poor soul that by some chances had also come into the same predicament as myself, but to my dismay and bad luck that seems to cross my path with Mr. Johnston I was told that I would spend my daylight hours gutting fish! Though protesting to this would have gotten me no further through this ordeal, Mr. Johnston then noticed my unpleasant look that I gave the from, "I shall introduce you to one of the more seasoned workers to commence with teaching you.." suddenly the man paused with an awkward expression consuming his face. "Forgive me but I never bothered to ask you of your name." he mumbled this in a rushed and embarrassed manner in an attempt to continue past his simple folly.

Though I know that in a place such as Boston where many people come and go, a brief wisp of fear overcame me at the slim chance of anyone knowing my origins or acts before my arrival. I brushed off this feeling quickly though to conceal anything that may cause my new employer any suspicion from my demeanour and answered in the way that has protected me from harm on many occasions, a white lie. "You may call me Abigail Proctor." I was out at ease immediately as he did not batter an eye at my words and called out to a middle aged woman, whom was in the process cutting a fish in half.

"Whitfield! Show Miss Proctor how my workhouse runs." At the mans bellowing shout the woman trotted over still wielding the cleaver. This woman was at least forty years of age and had grown plump and pink of skin during her years, her face was covered in several blemishes and wrinkles with age and her thick, wavy reddish hair tangled down towards her face in strands that ended in messy ringlets. Her clothes gave the same impression as her face, old and worn with the dark blue fabric of the dress stained with filth from the fish and the apron that was once most probably white had become a dark beige, most notable was that she appeared already exhausted from work so early into the day.

"Yes right away sir! Come along girl starin' won't get this done any time soon," her voice had a harsh, uneducated English accent and as she beckoned me with the cleaver in a come hither motion towards the table, I wondered whether this woman was really a fishmonger or a thug. For the rest of the day I was tutored by Mrs. Whitfield in the "art" of decapitating, quarter-sizing, and gutting all types of fish. each moment spent in that room was filled with longing to return to that digesting inn that is my residence and each free glance from the fish were directed towards the doorway that lead to Mr. Johnston's office, wishing for a way out of this foul task that I had been given.

As I left that evening I saw Mr. Johnston one last time as I walked down the alley, though he did not greet me with words just a long, harsh stare before heading on his way. His gaze was not cold despite the intense stare and I found myself feeling rather uncomfortable as I feel as if I know that expression, but I cannot place it exactly with words. When I had returned to my lodgings that evening my appetite had still not returned, Mrs. Whitfield had been kind enough to offer me some fish that had been salted and stored as rations for times when snow covered the streets and workers could not return home as a reward for my supposedly skilled work with the knife, I declined. I have no want for fish when their aroma now follows my fabrics and ruins my hunger.

Today my thoughts will be nothing but bitter as I return to the workhouse as my sleep last night was nothing but restless and haunting, For I have seen some bloody work done at night and the cold, heavy feeling hatchets and cleavers in my grasp have brought upon those cold me memories from the years of my childhood back into the present.


End file.
